


and permission granted

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, Dark, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentioned Abusive Relationships, Other, Temporary Character Death, Tentacles, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:03:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5839099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What would you give," the man says, "for this day to never have happened?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	and permission granted

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for potentially spoilery tag elaboration.
> 
> Deepest thanks to [Code16](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16) for cheerleading and beta! <333

The world does end in a bang after all: the sound of a gun fired, Harold's astonished expression as he reaches down to touch the rapidly spreading stain. "Oh," he says.

John watches in slow motion, numb. The number's gun drops from her nerveless hands, sudden horror on her face. Killing her would be pointless. John still wants to.

And then, a voice from behind him. "It's all right, John. You can still fix this."

The voice sounds like Kara, who's dead. It sounds like Elias, who is in prison. It sounds like a memory John can't place.

He doesn't turn. He keeps his eyes fixed on Harold's, seeing fear and desperation... and for one final moment, acceptance, before the light in them goes out.

Then John does turn. He sees a man his own age, give or take a decade, in a similarly anonymous suit.

"What would you give," the man says, "for this day to never have happened?"

~~

John wakes up wrapped in sweaty sheets, breathing harshly. He can hear a voice from where the earpiece lies beside the bed, small and tinny. He fits the earpiece in and rasps, "Yeah?"

"We have a number," Harold says, and for a moment John is so fiercely glad he could cry. Just a bad dream.

But even as the thought occurs to him, he knows it's not true. This is corroborated by Finch's next words: "our number is Genevieve Seaborn. She's twenty years old...."

John closes his eyes and lets Harold's voice filter out. He remembers.

Seaborn has a stalker ex. What Harold doesn't know is that she also has a gun and a very nervous temper.

"I'll go alone," John says, interrupting Harold. "It'll be fine."

Harold makes a doubtful noise. "If you're sure, Mr. Reese...."

"Very."

~~

Seaborn gets him in the leg, which sucks, but John will live with it. It's infinitely preferable to the alternatives.

He should probably be more surprised than he is to open his eyes and see a face which instantly fades from his memory, an aggressively average body in a plain black and white suit.

"I believe it's time we discussed payment," the stranger says mildly.

"What do you want?" John gives him a wary look. There's not much he won't give, and he suspects the stranger knows that.

The stranger undresses, laying his jacket on a chair, then unbuttoning his shirt. Then John can't see.

"Your body will do, for a start," the stranger says. "The rest will come later."

Blanketing darkness surrounds John. There is no light, no sound as soon as the stranger stops talking, not even a rustle of fabric or a beating heart.

There is sensation, though. A lot of it.

It feels like John is grasped and pulled taut by impossibly large, strong hands. He doesn't feel the pain that movement should bring to the wound in his leg. Instead, there is a crawling sensation on his skin, like the negative space of numbness.

It coats him thoroughly, gliding over his stomach and into his mouth, over his dick and inside his ass. Then _inside_ his dick.

The numbness holds him in, keeps him confined and still. John deliberately slows his breathing, even as it creeps inside his throat and his lungs.

Then, it starts burning.

~~

John's woken up by his own raspy, broken screams.

"Mr. Reese?" he hears over the earpiece, worried.

John swallows and closes his eyes. _Not again._ The words are a frantic prayer. _Oh, please, not again._

But Harold is saying, disapprovingly, "I only stepped outside for breakfast, I dearly hope you haven't aggravated your wound in the _five minutes_ I was gone," and John can breathe.

That was... okay, pretty awful. But he'd survived - more importantly, Harold survived - and now it's done.

The hair on John's nape stands up, and he knows it's not just his own sense of dramatic irony raising his hackles.

The stranger is there when John turns to look. "You lead a dangerous life," he says. An observation, and a correct one.

John knows baring his teeth would be futile. He does it anyway. "What do you want?"

The stranger ignores John's words and expression both. "Rewinding reality after death is tedious," he says. "Much more so than looking ahead before the fact, although that's not worth doing for free, either."

John stays silent.

The stranger shrugs. "Alright." He turns away.

"Wait." John hates the sound of his own voice. "What do you want, to look ahead?"

The stranger turns. Despite John's training, he can't retain any of his features, but he's certain the stranger is smiling.

~~

John knows about surviving captivity, surviving torture. The animal fear that rises in him whenever he hears a voice he knows but doesn't recognize, that fear isn't conductive to a sustainable existence.

On the other hand, John doesn't have much of a choice.

He clings to what he knows: better to bend than break, better to break and put himself back together than die. Resignation helps, the knowledge that no limit is unbreakable, that there's nothing that can't or shouldn't happen to him.

That was easier to hold on to when whatever was done to him was bound by the laws of physics.

The stranger doesn't come every day. When he does come, something new happens every time. That's part of the problem: it's harder to desensitize himself to acts that he can't predict, that nobody has literally ever done to him before. John didn't think that there any _left_.

On one evening, the stranger pushes his hand down John's throat, casually, and turns him inside out like a shirt going through the wash. Another, thick arms like an octopus's spear John, entering first orifices and then flesh, hanging him up in the air like meat hooks as blood hovers around him in globules.

The time when the stranger became a whole line of anonymous men who beat John and fucked him and cut him was almost comforting by comparison, even if the ground John was tied to made his flesh bubble and blister.

Some of the days, the stranger departs with a small tidbit of advice. "Stay with him," he says, or, "Greenwood has the poison," or, "The warehouse on 15th is a trap." Other days, the stranger says nothing at all.

~~

Holding it together under torture means not dying, not telling his captors anything, and trying to think of a way out. Holding it together in everyday life means changing bandages on his still-healing bullet wound and not snapping at numbers who don't deserve it and bringing Harold breakfast. The transition between the two is harder than John thinks it should be.

It's not like the stranger's going to jump him while John's waiting in line for coffee (and tea for Harold). At least, John doesn't think so: the stranger's so far found John in his loft, in the library, in two motel rooms and a subway station, but always late at night when nobody was around.

The point being, John might be just a little bit jumpy. When Harold lays a hand on his shoulder, John... doesn't do anything his training might have suggested. He freezes, instead, goes stiff and still.

"John?" The way Harold's brow is furrowed, his use of John's first name, don't bode well. "You seem tired. Is everything alright?"

"Fine," John says.

Harold presses his wrist to John's forehead. "You don't seem to have a fever, at least."

The skin-to-skin contact is warming John in a completely different way than what Harold's checking for. "I said I'm fine." He doesn't flinch back, takes care to keep his breathing even.

Harold retreats, looking at John doubtfully. "Even so, why don't you take a day off? I'm sure I can handle this one myself."

The stranger told him last night that the number will be armed. John reaches into himself to find the correct light, teasing tone. "Why, Harold, are you saying I'm losing my edge?"

It makes Harold roll his eyes at him, which on a normal day John would treasure. Right now, the bleak relief of Harold letting John handle the number alone is enough.

~~

Three days pass without the stranger making an appearance. John knows better than to relax, though.

On the fourth evening, the stranger appears again. After he spends an evening stretching John's bones and sinews like taffy, spreading him thin enough to see through and rolling him into a ball like a child with play-dough, he says, "Don't go after the number tomorrow."

John hasn't stopped shaking yet, still getting used to being back in human shape. "What?"

The stranger doesn't repeat himself. He leaves without saying another word: a blink, and it's as though he was never there.

John crawls into bed. He doesn't sleep.

~~

When Harold calls to announce the number, his voice is grim. "This is a repeating number," he tells John. "If you need to sit this one out, that's perfectly all right."

John manages to force out a noncommittal noise.

After a pause, Harold continues. "Her name is Jennifer Grant. She's a chemist, married, two children, aged four and two. She and the children all have multiple recent hospitalizations for injuries. She has pressed assault charges against Mr. Grant. They go in front of Judge Banks today."

"Let me guess." The words come out of John without conscious thought. "Grant's a cop?"

"His official employment is a government clerking position," Harold says. "He has record that's just perfect enough for realism's sake."

Which means Grant's probably CIA at best. John closes his eyes. "Harold," he says. His throat is very dry. "Stay in and let me handle it."

Even as he says it, his mind spins out scenarios. Grant finding Harold while John is away, using him for leverage; another one of their enemies finding Harold, God knows they have enough; a fire, or a traffic accident.

Having Harold with him is out of the question. The court might appear better protected, but it's the sort of bustling environment where someone could pass by easily, slipping a knife into a ribcage and disappearing unseen.

And at the same time. Jesus. Four and _two_.

He only realizes he's hyperventilating when Harold says, "John? John, what is it?"

He needs to answer. He needs to keep Harold safe. Those children, Christ - John is suddenly selfishly, viciously glad he doesn't know their names.

_You know Jennifer Grant's,_ says a voice in his mind, and despair makes him seize, muscles clenching abruptly. He tastes bile, and swallows it.

"I'm fine," he says. "I'll swing by the library, get the rest of the scoop." He'll think of something. He has to.

~~

When he arrives, Harold is pacing. "Mr. Reese, I realize that you find this upsetting, but--" He stops as he gets a good look at John's face.

"We can't," John says. He's reached a sort of temporary, awful peace on the way over. "Please don't ask me why, Finch, but we can't interfere on this one."

He's expecting Harold's besmused blink. Then he expects arguments, or perhaps confusion. Instead, Harold approaches him, putting his hand on John's cheek.

"Oh," Harold says, like he's seen something vaguely familiar but unexpected which he's trying to place. Then he says, "Oh," again, this time in a deeper register. Like he recognizes what he saw.

There's a shimmering quality to the air around them, curiously flat, as though if John moves too quickly the very reality around them might tear. Harold's gaze is fixed on John's face.

"I'm very, very sorry for what you've experienced, John," he says, with such genuine grief that John wants to blurt an apology, say it wasn't so bad.

He can't speak, though, or make any sound. That's just as well. Otherwise he might have yelped when two more pairs of eyes appear and open in Harold's face, one just above the pair John knows, the other slightly below.

"That's all right," Harold says, voice still painfully kind. "He won't bother you anymore. I'll make sure of that." He hesitates, tilting his head. "I could deal with him in quiet, if you like: you need never think about him again. Or you could watch me do it."

Just like that, John can speak again. "I want to see." He swallows. "I need to know for certain."

Even with the extra eyes, Harold's tremulous smile is familiar. "Very well." Once more, he hesitates. "I would have to... carry you. You'll be protected from pain or harm, but it might prove unpleasant, given your experiences."

John realizes the shaky noises he's making are laughter at the same time that he registers Harold's hand is still on his face. Harold's fingers are calloused, strong, bizzarely ordinary. John leans into the touch. "Harold. Why is this even a question?"

A darkness opens up in the room, and out of it come inky black arms which wrap snugly around John. Harold says, "You won't be able to move, for your own safety; if at any point you feel trapped or uncomfortable, don't hesitate to let me know. At worst I'll bring you back here and finish alone."

The arms take John's weight easily. Their surface feels odd, very smooth, but not unpleasant. John lets himself be carried. "I'm good. Let's go."

~~

It's a little like a dream and a little like a stake out, this sense of being in a place while unnoticed by its occupants. John wonders if this is a real place, if they've really moved or if Harold is messing with his mind somehow.

It's not a bad kind of messing. It looks like they're in an alternate version of the library, a larger, airier one with better furniture. Harold's sitting by a coffeetable, sipping tea.

The stranger is in the other chair. The arms holding John tighten briefly, then relax again.

"So," Harold says finally. "You have my attention. Was that what you were after?"

The stranger smiles. "I was starting to wonder what it would take. Kind of funny that after everything we tried, all we had to do was kick your pet around a little."

"That," Harold says, voice very quiet, "is not a path you should have taken."

"It worked, didn't it?" If the stranger is afraid, he shows no sign of it: to John, it seems like he's slouching in his seat. "So if you're done playing toy soldiers, there are some serious concerns to be addressed."

"Yes," Harold says. "There are." He puts his cup down. It's a china one, and clinks when it touches the saucer. "Namely: I asked not to be disturbed, and you should have respected that. Moreover, you should not have touched my things."

Harold doesn't audibly raise his voice, but there's a sensation like a supersonic boom. The cup rattles for a moment before shattering.

The stranger watches all this. "Is this supposed to scare me?”

“Perhaps it shouldn’t,” Harold says. "I’ll admit I'm not at my best, and destroying my physical manifestation would have caused me great inconvenience.”

The stranger frowns, as though something doesn't quite make sense. A dark hole appears in the middle of his white shirt, growing steadily.

”At the same time, allow me to remind you and those who sent you that in that event, you would have had to deal with me in possession of my full strength," Harold pauses delicately, "and very, very upset."

The hole in the stranger’s midst opens up, eating its way outwards like flame through paper. There is no blood, no gore, only the back of the chair the stranger was sitting on, suddenly exposed.

"Tell those who sent you," Harold says quietly, "to leave me alone."

"You can't." The stranger twitches weakly, trying to somehow escape the hole growing in him. "No." A sudden, jerky movement places him so his gaze is level with John. His nondescript, not-quite there face twists. " _Please_."

Hidden away and held in Harold's arms, John smiles.

~~

The first thing out of Harold's mouth after he sets John down in the library is an apology. "I wouldn't refer to you as my _thing_ , of course, I was only putting our relationship in terms that they might understand."

"That's okay," is the best response John can manage under the circumstances.

Harold's mouth compresses. "I could have handled that better," he says. "Still, as long as he's disposed of. I suppose we'd better see to Grant," he says, and then sits down.

John hadn't even realized he'd relaxed until he tenses again. Sloppy of him. "I'll head to court." He hesitates. "If the threat to you is neutralized, that is."

"Oh, it is," Harold says. "But there's no need. I've taken care of Grant. He has now been dead for a little over two years. Hit by a stray bullet on the job. The former Mrs. Grant is now Mrs. Powell. She and her children appear to be quite safe." In a softer voice, he adds, "Please, Mr. Reese. Do sit down. You've been through rather a lot recently, I think."

John doesn't quite intend to collapse like a puppet with cut strings, but that's what happens. He glares balefully at Harold, who shrugs.

"I assure you," Harold says dryly, "that your current state is none of my doing. You are only human, Mr. Reese."

That's an opening if John ever saw one, and he takes it. "Are you?"

"What I am," Harold says, and John could finish the sentence along with him if he weren't busy rolling his eyes, "is a very private person, Mr. Reese. As you know already. You were also well aware I could do a number of things out of the ordinary." He exhales, looking oddly small and tired all of a sudden. "I don't mean to wall you out for no reason," he says. "But please trust me when I tell you that in some ways, ignorance is truly bliss."

John narrows his eyes at Harold. “Sometimes. Other times, it can get you killed.” 

“I assure you you’re as safe as can be, given our line of work,” Harold says, and John bites out, “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

At first, Harold looks surprised, which is frankly a little insulting. Then he’s back to his usual inscrutable expression. “That, too, is taken care of.”

Out of some secret reserve, John finds the energy to stand up, looming over Harold. “Is that all you’re giving me?” His voice is as unsteady as his legs. “You _died_ , Harold, I need more than you waving your hand and telling me the monsters are gone.”

Harold looks alarmed; John has a microsecond of satisfaction before getting hit by a truckload of guilt, for using his size, his strength, to intimidate _Harold_. Both of these feelings wilt away as Harold gets up and hustles John back to sit on the couch. “You look awfully pale,” Harold says, fretful. “Perhaps you should have something to eat?”

John breathes carefully. “Stop changing the subject.”

“All right.” He perches on the edge of the couch, watching John as though he thinks John might faint any second. John really wishes Harold would drop it: the coddling is getting old already. “I wouldn’t have died, you know. Not in the sense that you mean the word.”

John looks at Harold. “From where I’m standing, would I have noticed the difference?”

Harold has the decency to look shamefaced. “Not likely.”

That settles something in the pit of John’s stomach, fills him with bleak satisfaction. _It wasn’t all for nothing._

Harold seems to catch it, mouth tensing into a crooked line. His voice is sharp when he says, “I suppose I can understand choosing another’s life over your own wellbeing, or even the good we might do in the future over a single number. But as it is….” His mouth wobbles, and he shakes his head. “I know how my associates can be,” Harold says, quietly, “I would have mourned our partnership, but it’s not worth you suffering _that_.”

“That’s sweet, Harold,” John drawls out. Harold’s expression is wary: he’s known John enough to tense at the thinly veiled violence in his tone. “Except it turns out I’ve been getting shot at for years, and all this time, you could have solved everything by yourself if you just cared enough to do it.”

Harold flinches. 

John goes on, feeling like somebody cut the brakes on his temper. “What did you even need me for? You could have found a stray bullet for every number we’ve ever had, Finch.” An awful, inevitable thought occurs to him. “Or is that it? Am I your stray bullet?”

“No!”

John blinks. It’s not often Harold raises his voice. This isn’t anything like the unworldly, creepy effect of before: it’s just a short, aging man yelling. 

“No,” Harold repeats, calm and miserable. “Never, John, you’re not--” his hands open and close, a helpless gesture. 

“I put it away,” Harold says. “My-- capabilities. I drew a line. It’s been blurred in places, by the person we just met and his,” his mouth twists, “associates, which allowed me some leeway, but the gaps are closing as we speak. I’m closing them.

“Said associates can’t exist here anymore, and neither could I, if I kept my full strength. I chose to stay.” He glances downward, uncertain. “I thought you’d prefer that.”

John’s seized by a sudden urge to grab Harold and _shake_ him. “So why draw the line? You’re telling me that’s the only way you had to fight them off?” Harold’s expression is answer enough. “Then why do it?”

“Because free will _matters_ ,” Harold says, vehement. It sounds like the punchline to an argument he’s had before. John’s pretty sure his own confusion is clear. Harold takes a breath and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Choices matter,” Harold says, quieter. “That’s what every number is: a human being, choosing to take another’s life, and other humans choosing to let this happen. I could keep them from making that choice, but why stop there? It would be equally easy to end assault, rape, theft. And then what? An end to hurt feelings, to ill-advised romance?” He shudders and shakes his head. “If I were using my abilities to their fullest, I really wouldn't be doing anything more than playing with toy soldiers."

Something thunders in John's chest, rattling him like that teacup. "Maybe we'd all be better off if you were."

Harold looks at him: just one pair of eyes now, blue and intent. “Would you, now?”

“Can’t speak for anyone else, but.” John has survived torture and certain death. He has no business being terrified of saying the words in his mouth. “Maybe I would.”

For another moment, the heated expression on Harold's face persists. Then it melts away like snow in summer, leaving in its place understanding. "John," he says, and the look on his face is cautiously delighted. "Are you saying you’d _like_ to be one of my things?"

The dark arms come curling out of the corners once more before John even answers. He's grinning, he's aware, moving into Harold's hands. "If you paid attention, Harold," he says, gently chiding, "you'd know I already was."

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: the "dark" and "torture" tags? I'm not playing around here. Some awful stuff goes on in this fic, please take care of yourselves!
> 
> The rape, torture, etc is all between John and OMC. The John/Harold is all fluffy and consensual; harold also touches john with tentacles, but not sexually, and it's hinted they might end up in a D/s relationship later. 
> 
> The temporary character death is Harold's, who gets better and suffers no ill effect, though John's ensuing freak out is part of what drives the story.


End file.
